poetry critical

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White woman says, "How rich and how old...?"
Black beauty says, "How thick and how long...?"
Sandwich Maker says, "Fresh!
Six, nine, or twelve inches.
Tuna or turkey.
Plain French or Italian.
Dollar an inch anyway
you measure your wants."

5 Oct 08

Rated 9.7 (6.2) by 3 users.
Active (3): 10
Inactive (11): 1, 1, 1, 1, 2, 2, 8, 9, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10

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subway ninjas.
 — 1994

thank you, my dear =survivor=.
Fifty years from now when i am dust,
if then I could but think of you....
but then I won't, miss.

1994 is a long time life giver.
myself-- can only do what's here.
 — netskyIam

not bad.
; )
 — fractalcore

thank you fractal. it isn't about the poet.  joey must hate this stuff.
so we love it extra extra with green Peppers and black Olives.
Thank you too for the mighty giftie of a big TEN for this six incher.
 — netskyIam

no poet in the filling! outrageous!

great little skit here though SkyNet ;)

nothing like a good roll and filling to make ones day...
 — Mongrol

dumpster diving, but this is leaner than you normally write and i think it's from all the writing practice you've been getting in the forum. there's nothing wrong with that, and the forum is just throw-away, just a worksheet. the gratuitous smut comes off too much like dorm humor to me, and maybe you're in your 'i'm in college now' period, or from hanging in the highschool quad, and maybe this is how it has to be. the last two stanzas are savable n plastic wrap, and i'd just keep grinding them out if i were you and find a poem.
 — unknown

MONGROL, thank you so much for the cheer that I so much needed tonight.
You know, sometimes a review is all the poet needs by which to stay alive.
 — netskyIam

Unsigned joey, thanks. You know I disagree with you, but you gave me your time and honest opinion, and you are all right for that.  You were and are a help.  Criticism is generally better for the poet than back-pats. I accept both flavours, and so, am happy to get the scales in balance.  What's that?  YES, my thumb is discretely cheating the weigh-out of your shaved ham order.  You are paying for ham, plus a thumb bum. :)
Thank you, joey.
 — netskyIam

why did you not relate this to men?

self hatred has many faces

perpetuating stereotypes limits the imagination

 — unknown

feels sort of obscene
 — chuckle_s

Thank you, anon. I'm glad to have your unknown insight into my Self.
If I hate anything, it's a tongue-tied paranoid schizophrenic serial killer.
But you are nothing like that! Just the opposite: you always tell YOUR truth,
boldly, where men (but not some women) fear to go....near you.  Joking,
but thanks for commenting, really.
 — netskyIam

Hi chuckles,  I've never made love to pastrami on rye
but I once fucked a pita bread stuffed with meat pie.
Food really does not turn me on nearly so much as
artificial inseminality.  Thanks bud, for the comment.
For you though, NO SOUP.   Yr. pal, the Soup Nazi.
 — netskyIam

revise of reaction to chuckle's comment.  Line breaks make or break a titty ditty:

Hi chuckles,  
I've never made love
to pastrami on rye
but I once fucked
a pita bread stuffed with meat pie.
Food really doen't turn me on
nearly so much as...inseminality,
naturally!  Thanks, sir, for your good thoughts.

For you though, NO SOUP.  

Yr. pal, the Soup Nazi.
 — netskyIam

Special offer! Free samples of foot-longs.
The bread is free, it's the stuffings that cost.
Why, beef is going through the roof lately!
December will see cow prices jump over the Islamic Moon.
GET YOUR SANDWICHES NOW, ladies and also, gents of a particular  bent?

This has been a fun poem that even anon should enjoy.
There's nothing here but good, clean food, and that's the fact!
Drat.  Just dropped a slab of corned beef onto the floor. No matter.  
Corned beef on foot long, discounted special price for YOU.
 — netskyIam

Funny thing about this clean poem of =implications=.
The "Sandwich Maker", is he a male?

Just last week the corner Stop 'n Shop completed their interior renovation.
It looks super fresh and clean now, all new counters, tables where one can stand
and eat. Annnnd a special counter stocked and staffed by Boar's Head (USA purveyor of fine foodstuffs). It is the custom sandwich counter.  The Sandwich Maker calls me "baby".  We are new friends. She is Honduran, and speaks almost no English.
And you only =presumed= that this "Sandwich Maker" to be a man.  She ain't.
Also, she does not really talk like that.  That's me, being a wag, per usual.
 — netskyIam

Raised, unfairly to others, I am sure, I apologize for this:
See, two others have given me free, tasty cookies.
We know the ratings system is not realistic, but can be used to reward
good boys and girls.   And my input just above, you see now the rest of the story?
And isn't poetry like this just about the most fun thing of all?  WOMEN!, the shouted title. Instant presumption (and the men are fooled too), that this is all inuendo.  And that the food preparer is some sort of SM freak.   And... I laugh, for we are all supposed to laugh at having been "had", in the nicest sort of way.  I will show this poem to the Sandwich Maker, though she won't understand more than a word or to about it.  Let her adult child who speaks English, explain?  Yes!  And so, Ernie just bought me a $90 laser ink printer.  Now I can print guerrrila  (sp) poetry and give copies of this-or-that to the strangers I now go out, seek out, every day, to spread the news:

I FEEL WONDERFUL  (Jerry Herman's very first stage production)

I really do!   More cookies always enjoyed.  But we know, it's all for treats,
and ratings don't really count.   PS:  Am partial to ten inchers, meant in the PROPER way.  But will settle for numerical equivalents, t.y. r.
 — netskyIam

a suburban miami housewife does an imitation of 'trailer trash' some guy doing an imitation of leona helmsley says, 'darling, that's wonderful!', and the housewife falls into the swimming pool and loses an eyelash. that's when it starts to get good. the best part is when her husband dotters out and says 'i don't feel so good', and then the pod people all start to die. it's sort of a romantic-tragedy with serious comment on the war in quebec.

dir. orson welles, 2001
 — geckodrome

Yikes!  I'm not sure if my initial interpretation of misogyny and racism and flippancy are right ... but it's ok.  I like the damn thing because it pokes me and prods me a bit.   Not bad for eight lines.
 — VeroniCat

mmmm sublicious.
 — unknown

Ha ha, yes, we are all happy. SUBVERSIVE poetry.  PRINT it out and show it to the church ladies or pastors and =then= tell them that it's ALL women, and they have....
durdy lil' minds for thinking what they thought, and should go pray to Jesus for guidance from this most clean of all possible poems. Cheers!  It also works for staid office workers.  Let 'em stew, then the next day, tell them the story of the SM lady?
Such fun!   Molto fun!  thank you for laughing,
 — netskyIam

edit:  L7 was "any way" and is now "anyway"
note: I will go take a picture or two of the new sandwich counter and of "Celia",
if she does not mind.  The new installation there beat Subway, hands down:
Boars Head is MUCH better, and that firm re-stocks the Sandwich Maker every dawn
with all-new-fresh ingredients.  I have to hand it to women because
a woman! satisfies all happy appetites.  
 — netskyIam

misogyny for sure.
 — opal

thank you for rating this ALL WOMAN poem with a punishing "one", Opal.
You did not get it.  It is a poem about a real life sandwich maker.  She happens to be
a woman.  And the rest of it?  The innuendo? Innuendo, clean, is the most sporting of all humour.  And there is no hate in this poem, only adoration.  AND NO MEN in it at all.
Thank you for the duck egg.  I am hurt, but thankful for your application, anyway.

 — netskyIam

See, that exclamation mark, deliberate, is a red flag to "set up" the men and the women, both.   The reader expects a diatribe against women.  And then come the first lines: yep, misogeny for sure (ha ha, NOT).  FOOLED YOU, din't, Opal.  You and every first time reader.  I call her Celia. She calls me "baby" and she does not really speak like that, hardly any English at all.  And she always gives me a free pastelito as 'un regalo' for my patronage of her excellent handiwork.  She really makes much better sandwiches than they make at Subway here in Miami.   Celia offers you a hug too.
She always gives me, the "misogynist" a hug, and I love hugs more, even, than cod
 — netskyIam

I don't really mean that the poem is misogynistic - it's a bit of irony based on the fact that I 'get it.' I'm staying out of Subway from now on. They sound like trouble.
 — opal

This was and is no Subway, Opal.  It's the ca. 1955, former U-Totem corner store.
Then it was some other firm's place.  I first went there in 1965 or so, and nothing since had ever been updated until this past year, when a third owner took over.  Now it is called "Stop 'n Shop.   The owner has completely re-done the interior fitments--it looks like hundreds of thousands have gone into the new counters and tables (you can stand and eat at tall, wood laminate tables.  They now offer stocks of wine, champagne, no more wino supplies, though. And there is a big glass humidor filled with fragrant, hand-rolled, high priced cigars.  Celia, the sandwich maker, though, rolls her own.  
 — netskyIam